


Just Another John Watson

by metus_noctis



Series: Of Consulting Detectives and Bloggers [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Drug Use, Episode: Sherlock (TV) Unaired Pilot, Hurt No Comfort, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Sad, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Mess, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20294317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metus_noctis/pseuds/metus_noctis
Summary: Sherlock shouldn't think too much of it. He pretends he doesn't. After all, it's just another John Watson, no one special, no one out of the ordinary, no one worth his time.





	Just Another John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I am not proud of this one but ehh
> 
> (I have a serious addiction with angst help)

A fine Friday morning, Sherlock comes home to a John sitting on the lounge, a cup of tea in hand while the other massages his temple. He allows a smile at the sight, his flatmate's presence proving to be quite reassuring to have around. He approaches John's armchair with a grin only seeming to widen by the second.

“Ah, John”

John looks quite surprised to see him there, as if he wasn't aware Sherlock had come back. He adjusts himself on his chair, before deciding he'd better stand up. He straightens his clothes and clears his throat. “Uh, Sherlock, hi”

“Doing well?”

“Uhm, yes, Sherlock?”

“Brilliant! I just checked us in on Lestrade's new case---”

“Sherlock---”

“-- come on, we have a crime scene to investigate!”

“_Sherlock_!”

It's Sherlock's turn to be startled then. “_What_?”

“I, uh, actually wanted to talk to you about something”

“Go on, then”, says Sherlock, a small, v-shaped smile still evident on his lips. John looks extremely guilty upon noticing it.

“Look, Sherlock, I just wanted to say--- I want you to know that it's not your fault”

“What's not my fault?”

“I'm moving out.”

The previous endearing curling is replaced by an unforgiving straight line. “_Oh_”

“And that's only because I, well, I just came back from the war and living with you, it's too much for me. At least for now, I think my mentality needs a break, and, living with you is not...”

“_Right_”, Sherlock interrupts, knowing fully well where this conversation was going. Honestly speaking, he didn't have the strength to listen to John's apologies of pity and sentiment. _Bloody sentiment_, always on his way. “No, I--- I get it, you think I'm too weird, you want to live a normal civilian life without having to watch over me and my peculiarities. I get it.”

“_No_, Sherlock---”

“_I get it_”, the detective says, gaze at his side, facing the kitchen, voice stone cold, private. “It's fine, I'll just--- I'm going out”

“_Right_”, John agrees, and he doesn't understand why he does that, not when all he wants is to stop Sherlock from leaving in an attempt to hold himself back from leaving, too, but he does anyway. He forces a fake smile with a hard swallow of the bulk in his throat and holds his gaze steady against Sherlock's piercing icy blues. “I'll be packed and out of here before you're back, don't wanna bother you any longer.”

And instead of saying something along the lines of _'I'm sorry'_, or '_I'll change, I promise'_ , or _'You're the most interesting person I've met so far, please don't leave me'_, Sherlock says--

“You better be” -- like he doesn't care, like he could do without a flatmate and partner in crime, like what they had for a month now meant nothing. Sherlock supposes it didn't seeing as John is leaving. _Him_. John is not just leaving, he's leaving _him_. Because it's the truth, because Sherlock is a freak and a weirdo and a loner, and _no one_, not even 'Good Doctor John Watson' wanted him as a friend. _Friend_. What a funny word; Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends.

Sherlock looks at John one last time before bolting down the stairs and exiting the apartment complex, feeling like he's alone in the world, a single black rose amidst the pretty red ones. He doesn't look back, not even once, he can't stand the sight of Baker Street disappearing into the horizon behind him, not when this Baker Street had come to be associated with one John Watson, the one person that made Sherlock feel less alienated and the one person that was now abandoning him for the exact reason that he is, in fact, an alien amongst men and women. He's not normal, he's not ordinary. He's eccentric and egoistic and too bloody intelligent for morons like John Watson. He tells himself that, he resorts to anger instead of sadness (_bloody sentiment, messing with his perfectly functioning brain_), in order to feel better about being alone in a scruffy flat in Baker Street once more. He tells himself that John Watson is _not_ special, that he's an ordinary idiot like the rest of the world, that it's for the better that he left, that he was just a bother to him and not someone to look forward to waking up with every single day. No, John Watson was _ordinary_, and normal, and _stupid_, and _straight_. He wouldn't let himself think about why his sexuality was relevant to the point, but it was the truth. John Watson was a simple man, aspiring to be a life-saver, a husband, and a father, and Sherlock did not need him.

He tries not to think about how John is still in 221B right this moment, that he still hasn't packed, that he still hasn't burst their little bubble of flat-sharing and crime-solving, except he had. The moment he announced his moving out, Sherlock decided he hated him and wanted him out of the house so he could go back to living alone in the flat and doing whatever the fuck he wanted in it. He tries not to think about how easy it would be to turn around and run back to Baker Street, tell John what an influence he's had on him in just the span of a month, beg him to stay, make Mycroft pay him to stay, _anything_, _God_, he could do _anything_, just for John not to leave.

But he doesn't.

Instead he runs, as fast as he can, crossing the road carelessly, the drivers' and pedestrians' screams of horror as he's almost hit by a bus muffled from the volume of his mind deleting John Watson from its hard drive. Except he can't, he can't delete John Watson no matter how hard he tries. John is like a virus, stuck in his mind and contaminating it with thoughts and daydreams about situations that would never happen, because John is about to leave and nothing is stopping him. Sherlock runs a little faster when his mind corrects him, telling him that John is not a virus, but rather a lifeline, his salvation, there to clear his mind off toxic thoughts and harmful intentions. He almost stumbles when it tells him that he needs John Watson to keep him right, or else he'll fall into a dark venomous pit with no way to climb out of.

It has become muscle memory to come here. Three-hundred steps, two crossroads and seven alleyways away from Baker Street, the abandoned workshop packed with junkies strolling on the creaky wooden floor in cloud nine. Sherlock's favourite place, his go-to when in distress, his precious supplement of highly dangerous drugs. He rushes in, snatches a pouch of cocaine, sniffs it, and crashes face down on a dirty, dusty mattress. Who cares. It's better than home. It's better than a bed in a house previously shared with John Watson. And it's not like he has anything better to do; John will be out in no time and will never contact him again. John will stop worrying about him and forget him to go live a normal life. John is not going to wait for him to come back.

Except he does. John, despite saying he'll be out by the time Sherlock comes back to their--- _his_, flat, feels the sudden urge to wait for Sherlock to come back, to say a last goodbye to him, to explain that he's _not_ leaving because of his poor flat-sharing manners and the unwashed laundry and the human-flesh-involving-experiments, so he does. By now he's finished packing, so he sits on his chair -- _his chair_, a chair put there for him and him only, and now it will be there for no one, or maybe it won't be there at all. Maybe Sherlock will get rid of it so he doesn't have to be reminded of him every time he enters the lounge -- and waits. He waits and waits, minutes, hours pass by, and Sherlock is still not back to 221B and he's getting fairly worried. What if Sherlock's had an accident? What if he's in danger? John knows he shouldn't care but damn him, he does. He cares for this peculiar curly-haired mad detective of a roomate. _Ex-roomate_, he reminds himself. _You're only here to say goodbye because you have manners_ \-- _and feelings_ \-- _and because Sherlock is nowhere to be seen and Oh God maybe he's dead_. John considers calling him, and decides against it. He considers calling Lestrade and decides that that is a far worse decision. So he resorts to waiting. When nighttime comes around, he's fairly sure Sherlock has just gone out for the entire day, maybe to visit his family, or a lover. He tells himself that, he lets the reassurance wash over him at the thought of Sherlock tucked in safe spending the night at someone's place, and gets up. If Sherlock is not going to show up, he might as well leave. And he does, he takes his luggage in hand, and with one last look to his flat for a month, shuts the old door close behind him. When he ascends down the stairs, he sets the keys down on Mrs Hudson's coffee table with a frown and leaves for good.

_God_, is he going to miss her. Mrs Hudson was always so good to him and Sherlock alike, and she took care of him just before John moved in for which he supposes he was grateful. He hopes she doesn't miss him too bad.

When he enters his old flat, provided to him by the post-war fare, he sets his stuff down and collapses on the bed. A moment later, it's as if he had time-traveled, as he now found himself awake from yet another nightmare, jolted out of bed with sweat dripping down his forehead and tears mixing in further down the cheeks, eyes wide with shock. Sure, he'd gotten used to them, but why now of all times? The realisation hits him moments later, after he's brewed a kettle to calm himself down. The realisation that the fact that he was so shocked was not because of the context of the nightmare, _which was in fact terrible_, but because of the fact that over his stay in 221B, he had stopped having them drastically. And if that was the case, then...

_God_, what had he done?


End file.
